I don't remember the great denouement of my childhood when I found out Santa wasn't real. No recollection at all of my suspicions, of flaws in my parents' carefully constructed festive logic, and certainly not anyone actually breaking the news to me. But I do remember when my relationship with the bearded man in red started to take an altogether more ... bizarre turn.

This is the tale of my ever so slightly messed-up relationship to Santa.

Like all spellbound little kiddies, I remember leaving out some food and drink for him on Christmas Eve. Nothing out of the ordinary there. I'm sure most of us used to leave out a glass of milk and a mince pie to help him through his busy night. Except, in chez Jennie and Her Parents, it was a glass of wine. As far as I remember, it was always a glass of wine, and as tradition is tradition, I never seemed to question why Kris Kringle would be spending Christmas Eve on the lash. It was just normal.

Except for one Christmas morning back in the 80s when I came downstairs to find that Santa had indeed visited and helped himself to the goodies (yay!), but left, on the rim of the glass, a lipstick print.

Huh.

Now that certainly wasn't normal.

My next unusual encounter with Santa came a year or so later, at a Christmas party thrown at my dad's old office in Maidenhead, to which wives and offspring were invited. I don't remember where the whispers originated, but throughout the party, there was a tantalising rumour circulating that <gasp!> Santa was going to visit!

Now, this being in the wake of the lipstick incident, which I hadn't quite digested in my tiny mind, I was sceptical. I wasn't sure Santa - if he existed - was to be trusted.

But later in the party, my mum's face took on a look of awe, and she pointed to behind where I was standing.

No....surely not...

It was him! Santa, resplendent in his soft red robes, was lugging a sack stuffed full of presents to the end of the room, followed by a feverish line of excited, squealing children. I was in that line faster than a rat up a drainpipe. Of course he was real! Oh Santa, how could I ever have doubted you? Eagerly, almost dancing with excitement, I waited and waited until it was my turn, until I could reach the front of the line, and look into his kindly old eyes. And when I got to the front, I beamed, looked at him, and ...

...

..."Dad?!"

Santa's kindly eyes suddenly turned into daggers, and he put a finger to his lips, warning me to button my lip and behave myself. I knew that look - who doesn't recognise that look in their own father? I guess my dad drew the short straw in the 'who's going to play Santa at the party?' competition.

And that was that. Like I said, I don't remember when the legend of Santa disappeared into a puff of smoke. But seeing as I'm blogging this from the comfort of my parents' house and, behind me, is a big cardboard box full of presents for me. So the magic most definitely does not reign supreme in this house.

The point of this tale? There isn't one. Just wanted to share a couple of mildly twisted festive tales from my youth, and to wish you all, wherever you may be and whoever you may be spending the day with, a very, very Merry Christmas.